


Just Friends

by sporklift



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: 102 uses of the word "fuck", Didn't Know They Were Dating, Family Drama, Latent Homophobia, M/M, Maggie and Went mean well, Pining? Poorly time sexual tension? WE GOT ALL THAT, Rated T for (pretty fucking) Tame for this fandom, Regression, You want tropes? We got tropes!, but also like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 16:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21038954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sporklift/pseuds/sporklift
Summary: Richie brings Eddie home for a good-old-fashioned family shindig. Everyone thinks they're dating. And it gets worse.(Or: Things Get Weird at Wentworth Tozier's Retirement Party)





	Just Friends

**Friday **

When Eddie comes stomping out of their brownstone, he almost immediately drops his giant fucking suitcases. Almost immediately gapes. “Holy shit.” 

Richie, leaning back on the hood of his brand-new, bright-red Mustang convertible, winks. “Sexy, right?” 

Eddie comes circling around, looking at the details, the little metal horse on the grill. “When the fuck did this happen?” 

“Last night.” 

Eddie’s face crumples. He starts. He’s kind of adorable, in every way he’s exasperated. “You bought this car _ yesterday _?” 

“That is what I said, yes.” And it’d been fucking torture, trying to keep it to himself. All he’d wanted to do was barge in through the doors and insist Eddie take a gander at his ride. 

“And we’re about to go on a fucking eight-hour drive in a car that you’ve only driven off the lot? Does that seem _ at all _safe to you?” 

Richie shrugs. It’s new. There shouldn’t be an issue, right? “They don’t sell ‘em broke.” 

“Get off the hood and pop it.” Eddie sweeps his hand, as though he can push Richie off from his place on the curb. Richie does, though, jump down, as though the wave of air threw him. Eddie pushes the hood up. “Do you have a rag for the dipstick?” 

“Not for the one in the car, but I can grab an old sock from inside. Let you make it all crispy.” 

“That’s _ disgusting.” _Eddie pantomimes gagging, and unzipping his fanny pack, pulls out a Kleenex. He leans over the hood of the car, unscrewing the yellow loop on top of the dipstick. He slides the wire in the Kleenex, wiping it down, and leans forward again to place the stick back into the engine. 

A sort of methodical precision. A concentration between his eyes and his fingers. 

Richie knows that, if he waits here any longer, he’s going to go slack-jawed. And so he turns back to the stairs to grab Eddie’s suitcases. They’re heavy as shit. What the fuck did Eddie pack? Four gallons of sunscreen? It’s just four fucking days in Hell. One gallon will be enough. 

He places the suitcases in the trunk, squishing his duffle bag into the corner. When he comes back around, Eddie’s leaning on his forearms, chewing on his lip. 

“What’s the diagnosis on my baby, Dr. K?” 

Eddie rolls his eyes, but he says, “Looks okay. Still gotta check the tires. And under for leaks.” 

“Y’know, I don’t think they would’ve sold me a leaky ‘stang.” 

Eddie closes the lid. It slams down on the body of the car, loud. Eddie’s hands lie flat on the thin metal layer of the hood. His fingers look long, there. “I don’t fucking care. I’m not gonna die just to spend the weekend with your parents. Go grab my toiletries bag. It’s inside.” 

Richie does. He finds the small black bag on the dining room table. All of Eddie’s fucking luggage matches. It’s a set, plain black, four different cases in all the standard sizes for air travel, all with combination locks and special I.D tags. Mrs. K made him buy the set with all the precautions, insisted that, if her little Eddie Bear was going to move so far away, he might as well have something so the investigators could identify his body. 

Like murderers would only attack if Eddie had his luggage with him. 

Like anything about the transit could be scary enough to outweigh the lure of the big city. 

And maybe they’d been stupid at the time. Their only goal was getting the fuck out of Derry. Their only means was running to the broadest skyline they could find. Richie’s piece-of-shit Chevy had broken down almost immediately after they got there. They’d lived with Bill and Mike and Beverly, in this tiny-ass train car of an apartment, for the better part of two years. Locked themselves away from the crackheads next door. Beverly finished her degree with two high-profile internships under her belt. Mike got his Master’s in Library Science. Bill worked towards his MFA in Creative Writing. Eddie got promoted. Richie worked the phones for Marriott International during the day, did open-mics and small stand-up gigs at night. 

Then Eddie had to move away, for two years, to live with his mom again and haul her around for chemo. By year three, Bev was off to Chicago, and Bill and Mike were on their way to Florida. And then Eddie came back. He fucking came back. Everything was different, but he came back to Brooklyn anyway. 

And now? Richie has enough to make his monthly payment for the Mustang. He’s down to one roommate, in a nicer apartment, in a nicer part of the city. 

Which isn’t half bad for thirty-three. 

He swings through the house because he knows Eddie’s going to want to double-check and make sure everything’s good to go, pulls the cord in the Keurig, before he steps back outside, twisting his key in the deadbolt. 

As he does, Eddie’s pulling himself out from under the car. His shirt rides up on his ribs. There’s a grease stain on his hand. “All right,” He says, hauling himself to his feet and patting the car. He pulls a fucking bottle of Purell out of his pack. “It’ll do.” 

“And we’re off!” Richie punches into the air, smiling wide. He jumps into the driver's seat without opening the door. 

Eddie has his hand on the handle. Then, he hesitates. “Did I unplug the coffee machine?” 

“Beat you to it.” Richie can’t help but smile. He’s not always this good at guessing what Eddie’s going to do, but as far as today goes, he’s one for one. 

* * *

Within the first twenty minutes of the drive, they swing by Dunkin Donuts. Richie gets a bear claw and a cappuccino. Eddie gets a double shot and Wake-Up Wrap. Richie pays, as a way of thanking Eddie for coming along. 

By the end of the first hour, Richie’s interpretations of both “Single Ladies” and “Boom Boom Pow” have gone completely underappreciated. Eddie might laugh at Richie’s musical stylings, shaking his head, and maybe -- _ maybe -- _ Richie got him to sing along once or twice, but it’s not like he’s begging for an encore. Not like he needs to. He’ll get the encore, anyway. Like Richie’s _ not _going to rap along with Pitbull when “Hotel Room Service” starts playing on the radio.

Hour two. Richie sticks a menthol between his teeth. Eddie shakes his head. “Uh-uh. No way.” 

Richie gawks. “Oh, come on. The top’s down!”

“Not while you’re driving, man.” 

“So I can eat and drink behind the wheel but not smoke?” 

“I can tell you the statistics but…” Eddie says, a little wry. 

“Ugh. No. I’ll fall asleep, I swear!” Richie spits the unlit cigarette into the cupholder. 

By the time they’ve been on the road for three hours, they roll up to a Circle K. They don’t need to yet, but Eddie doesn’t like to get below half a tank. They’re in the middle of a rather spirited debate about whether or not one could, in fact, make like Ke$ha and brush one’s teeth with a bottle of Jack. 

Hour four, and they’re doing nothing but complaining about how long this drive is. And how Derry, at the other end, is so totally not worth it. 

Eddie drives next, during the fifth hour. There’s a lot less music and a lot more screaming out the windows about “Don’t you know what a fucking blinker is?!” and “Don’t they fucking teach you how to fucking drive in fucking Massachusettes?!” 

And, every time it happens, Richie has to smile. 

Eddie doesn’t want to stop. He protests. But they’ve been on the road for six hours at this point. It’s one in the afternoon. They need lunch. They don’t sit down anywhere, Richie doesn’t care about crumbs in his car, but get burgers to go. And, just like that, they’re back in the car. Stuck in this neverending In-Between from point A to point B. 

With a full belly, Richie falls asleep until they’re rolling into Maine. Another hour gone. Eddie’s gazing at the road, white-knuckling the steering wheel. Concentrated and, to Richie, fascinating. 

They switch again, topping off the tank, and Richie takes over for the final stretch. The trees are high, suffocating, issuing him in this tunnel of road, all the way back to Derry, Maine. He’s so fucking ready for this car ride to end.

At least, he thought he was. But that was before he was rolling up to the house he grew up in. The sprawling, split-level, blue and white brick, the double-wide driveway. It makes him feel so fucking small. 

And, what’s worse, is he doesn’t even have much to blame for it. It’s not like this house ever meant anything other than a place to sleep, to scrawl through his pre-calc, or to scarf down bacon on Sunday mornings. 

Literally, everyone else he grew up with has more of a reason to hate coming home than he does. 

He asks Eddie if he needs help with his shit, popping the trunk. Eddie tells him not to be ridiculous. And there’s no other reason to delay the inevitable. 

But, nevertheless, he can feel himself shrinking. Regressing. Like his fucking body hair is reabsorbing into his skin. Like his voice is getting several octaves higher. He squeezes the strap on his duffle bag, and knocks on the door, three times. He can hear the vacuum from inside and has to knock again. 

Maggie opens the door, hair coiffed and earrings dangling from her lobes. “Sweetheart, it’s so good to see you!” She has to spring up on her toes to hug him, and Richie has to stoop, saying hi as he does. “How was the drive?” 

“Long,” He says, realizing as he’s pulling away that her roots are all gray. “So frickin’ long.” 

At this point, Eddie shuffles up to the doorstep, with his suitcases in tow. Maggie turns over, looking over Richie’s shoulder. 

“My goodness,” She says, stepping away from Richie to give Eddie the most baffling conservative-side-hug Richie has literally ever witnessed. “Eddie Kaspbrak! I wasn’t expecting to see you, dear!” 

Eddie doesn’t seem to know whether or not to hug her back, Or _ how, _given the luggage situation. He drops one case and pats her shoulder, tentative. “Hi, Mrs. Tozier.” 

_ Don’t do it, _ Richie thinks. _ Don’t fucking do it, Mom. _

“Honey, please. It’s hard enough on me that you boys are all grown up. The least you could do is call me Maggie.” 

_ She fucking did it. _

Eddie nods, slowly. Awkward. “I can try.” 

And now the attention slips back to Richie. “Richard, I wish you would’ve told me you were bringing _ Eddie. _When you said you were bringing someone for the party, I just assumed it was a girlfriend--” 

Maggie’s face falls. Here it comes. Richie can feel himself wince. Not because of the slip, per se, but because of the fucking dam that’s about to blow. 

A French-tipped hand flies over her lips. Maggie stammers. “Oh! I meant to say boyfriend.I’m so sorry, honey. I forget. It’s still so new.” 

“It’s been, like, five years,” Richie mutters. He feels Eddie’s elbow jab in his ribs. “But it’s fine, Mom. Really.” 

She’s bright red, blending into her lipstick. “I..I never expected it--” 

“I know.” 

“I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s all good.” Richie needs to change the subject. He doesn’t want to get into the over-apologizing acrobatics. Just once, without all that, would be _ great _. “So what was that about Eddie?” 

Maggie seems relieved to have a change of subject. Even if she’s still wringing her hands. “Oh, it’s just that we have a full house this weekend. Stephanie and David are in her room. The kids are in the basement. I’d hate for you to have to use that old trundle bed…” 

She fades. Richie isn’t exactly _ thrilled _ with the way her eyes widen. 

“Or...or is this not a problem? Are you two…?” 

From beside him, Eddie squeaks. Richie straightens his back, holds his hands out like they’re all about to crash into something. “_ No!” _

His chest feels tight. He looks over to Eddie, who’s exhaling and shaking his head, who’s taking a step back - back and away. 

Richie continues: _ “ _ It’s not a problem, but _ no. _Help me out here, Eds.” 

“Yeah. We’re not...no. But we can just do the trundle bed.” 

“Like when we were kids! Pull-er-out.” Richie blurts, for emphasis. And immediately wants to fucking. Disappear. Or tie all his limbs into knots. 

“Dammit, _ Richie.” _

Richie shrugs. 

Maggie’s staring. But then, she brightens. Plastic and instant, like she always does when she’s pretending to get it. “Well. All right, then. You two put your things away. Your father should be home soon.” 

* * *

“Your mom definitely thinks we’re fucking,” Eddie says, resting his suitcases on the inside wall of Richie’s old bedroom. “What the hell was that? ‘Pull-er-out?’” 

“I don’t fucking know.” Richie tosses his duffle on the bed. It’s a new comforter. Purple argyle, and nothing like anything he used to have here. 

None of it, really, looks like it used to. It’s the same twin bed and the same dresser, but none of his old posters hang on the walls. His corkboard of Dilbert comics and old photo strips is all but empty. There’s one string of photo strips, from when he was fourteen. All seven of them, crammed into one booth. It’s probably still up because nobody’s flipping off the camera and nobody’s pretending to make out. That one, apparently, passed the test. It’s the only acceptable one. Whoo fucking hoo. 

There’s a white, fluffy rug on the floor that just seems _ wrong, _and a trendy painting of a bouquet in silhouette. 

Shit that wouldn’t have been within ten feet of his room, back when he was living here. 

Though, he kind of forfeited that with the whole moving-away and being-over-twenty thing. It shouldn’t matter. It _ doesn’t _matter. 

“Yeah, well,” Eddie says, unzipping his suitcase to reveal a neatly folded pile of fucking polo shirts. “I’d like to avoid awkward dinner conversations.” 

Richie blows out, throws his jacket on a winged chair that, also, definitely hadn’t been there when Richie was growing up. “I don’t think that’s even possible, man.” 

* * *

As predicted, dinner conversation _ is, _in fact, fucking awkward. 

Maggie’s made chicken fettuccini, and a whole hell of a lot of it, in case Stephanie and her family roll up tonight instead of tomorrow morning. And there’s not a whole lot to say in the silence, stiff as all fuck, other than, “Looks great, Mom.” 

Like. It’s quiet to the point when, washing back his noodles with tap water, Eddie even turns to the head of the table, asking, “Dr. Tozier, are you enjoying your last week of work?” 

Richie can’t even remember the last time Eddie spoke to his father. 

Wentworth nods, dabbing his neat more-salt-than-pepper goatee with his cloth napkin. “Yeah. It’s busy, though. I think I’m ready to relax.” 

“Sounds like you picked a good time...to...retire.” Eddie nods, a little too long, meandering. He looks down at his plate, tapping his thumb on the handle of his fork. 

In a mad attempt to alleviate some of this fucking nonsense, Richie asks his mom to please pass the green beans. And she does, launching forward with some different fucking nonsense. “Oh, Richard. Do you remember Mrs. Jones?” 

Richie takes the serving bowl, scoops himself some green beans. He’ll need, like, a mountain of butter for them, but he tries to remember. “The lady with all the cats?” 

“No, that was Mrs. Johnson. Mrs. Jones runs the community auction each year.” 

Oh. Right. The one with the hunchback. Richie nods, slabbing butter onto his vegetables. “She knits, right?” 

“Right,” Maggie says, and goes on. “Well, she saw your little skit on T.V.” 

“My _ skit?” _

“Yes. On that comedy channel.” 

Richie needs a drink. Preferably something aged in an oak barrel. Instead, he chews on his beans. And then says, “Okay.” 

“And she said it was so nice to see a boy from Derry up on the TV. And we are all so proud of you.” She sighs. “I only wish I understood your jokes a little more. I think I’m getting too old for it.” 

Oh, here it comes. 

From beside him, Eddie says, “That’s not an age thing. It’s just that Richie isn’t funny if you think about it for more than two seconds. You ever notice how sometimes he does this thing--”

Eddie prattles on, filling in the empty spaces, stopping the questions, with his speed and verbal ferocity. 

So. Maybe it’s not coming after all. 

Richie sticks out his tongue at Eddie. But the second their eyes meet thereafter, he’s mouthing to him: _ Thank you. _

* * *

After dinner, Richie stands beside his father in the basement, looking at the assortment of bottles behind the little wet bar in the corner. Richie’s a little astounded that he remembers exactly which ones are watered down. And don’t they ever _ finish _their shit anymore? After fifteen years? 

Even though he’s all grown up, he still feels the tiniest shiver of shame when Wentworth suggests the Absolut and Richie, knowing that particular bottle is about ninety percent water, has to suggest Seven Crown. 

And it shouldn’t be surprising when Wentworth says, “Of course you went for the vodka.” 

“Had to take what wouldn’t be missed.” He won’t apologize, because it’s such old news, and his father isn’t even asking him to. So, he pulls out the glasses - one for him, one for Went, and one for Eddie. He pauses his hand, briefly, over a fourth. “Is Mom drinking these days?” 

Went shakes his head. “Just wine.” 

Richie withdraws his hand, and Went begins to pour. It’s heavy. A few extra fingers. Richie can all but hear Eddie, in the back of his mind, _ That’s, like, two servings. _

But. That thought shouldn’t even be on his mind. They’re Tozier men. That’s not what they do. 

* * *

It’s fucking weird, rolling back the purple argyle sheets. If he looks back far enough, he can see the movie posters on the wall. The action figures on the dresser. The photographs Maggie decided weren’t appropriate for a spare room. But, none of it’s there anymore. Instead, he has to leap over Eddie to get to the twin mattress. 

“Hey, watch it,” Eddie calls, dodging a knee to the face. 

“I mean, I could walk on you if you want.” 

Eddie flips him off. 

Richie lays back on the bed. It’s almost too short for him, and he curls up on his side. Propping himself up on his elbow, he asks, “Are you sure you want the trundle? Wanna hop in, Eds?” 

“If I thought for one second that you’d actually switch me places, _ maybe. _” Eddie flops onto his back. In the low light from the bedside lamp, it looks almost like an old memory. 

“Switch? No. It’s cuddle time or nothing.” 

“Fuck off.” 

Richie has to smile. He can remember this, or this sort of thing at least. Years of sleepovers, in this room. Sometimes with everyone else. Sometimes with just them. Back when this bedroom looked the way it was supposed to. And they’d be up all night, reading comic books and telling scary stories, playing on Richie’s Super Nintendo, and only fall asleep when the sun was coming up, wadded and curled up, sometimes on the trundle bed, and sometimes on the twin. Sometimes like this.

And sometimes together, elbows digging into each other’s sides. 

* * *

By the time Maggie’s ready for bed, the house is quiet. Went’s propped himself up on a mountain of pillows, reading some hardcover by Tom Clancy. She slides beneath the duvet and presses a goodnight kiss to her husband’s cheek. 

Before she turns out the light on her nightstand, she asks, “Did you speak with Richard tonight?” 

Without looking up from his book, Went nods. “Yes. He used to water down our vodka in high school.” 

“I remember when we were young, and only the bad kids did things like that.” Maggie frowns, fiddles with the hem of the sheet. The thread-count feels _ off, _somehow. 

“No. You were just a very good kid.” 

Maggie hums out a vibrato of a sigh. “I wanted ours to be, too. I hope they were...that Richie didn’t get into any trouble we don’t know about.” 

“He turned out okay.” Went still hasn’t looked up from his book. 

“I hope so_ . _” And Maggie’s voice is soft, whispering. As though Richie’s still the type to press his ear up to the door. She rests her head on her husband’s shoulder. “But how can you tell?” 

“He’s got that fancy new car. Hasn’t asked us for help with rent in awhile. I think that’s a decent metric.” Here, Went sticks his thumb in his book. He lifts his chin and kisses her hair. 

“He has me learning something new about him every time I see him. Things I thought I knew about his childhood...I don’t. He was _ drinking _. He didn’t even go to parties back then. Where did he even get the idea to do something like that?”

“He was a teenager.” 

Maggie sighs, brain going a million miles per hour. “Do...do you...do you suppose he was _dating _any of his friends? There were so many of them. They had so many sleepovers. And he did _beg _me to take him to Stanley’s bar mitzvah. He was the only one of them there…” 

“Maggie. Don’t.” 

“What? Our son is all grown up and I _ still _don’t get him. How did I raise someone I don’t even know?” 

“You’ve always had trouble with him,” Went says, as though that’s an excuse. 

“I don’t even know what he’s doing with his life. He’s a full year older than you were when he was born. We had our family, and this house, a...trajectory. I don’t know how he can even make a living doing his...TV skits. And, my God, I can’t believe that him and little Eddie Kaspbrak are…together...” 

“What?” Went blinks. 

“Hadn’t you noticed?” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Well, you don’t really bring friends to big family parties like this, do you?” Maggie knows Went can’t help it when his face draws up into a grimace. He really can’t. 

“Knock it off, Mags.” 

“Went, it might be a good idea to---” 

“Our son sleeps with men! Isn’t that enough without..._ extras?_!” 

And, it’s so sad, his face. Pulled down and tight. He has to take off his readers and rub the bridge of his nose. Maggie places her hand on Wentworth’s forearm. Softly, now: “You need to get used to it eventually.” 

He sighs. “Are _ you _ used to it?” 

“I don’t know.” Maggie’s stomach drops. It’s not the answer she wants to have. She wants to understand why her boy is living the way he is. She wants to be okay with it. When Steph got married, she’d been five months pregnant. That’d been an easier pill to swallow. It shouldn’t have been, but it was, and Maggie has to live with that fact for the rest of her life. 

She can’t bring herself to admit it. 

But with Went, it's safe to say. It’s safe to be a little bit of a hypocrite, because he’ll understand. 

She sighs: “But, darling, Richard is thirty-three years old and he’s never brought anyone home before. Not like this, at least. This is a big deal. I want to get to know our son, Went. And this seems to be part of it.” 

**Saturday, daytime. **

Richie has a drool spot on his pillow, under his gaping mouth. It occurs to Eddie, a little too late, that maybe he’s been looking for too long. He doesn’t mean to. He’s not being a creep or anything. He’s groggy. It’s morning. Fucking sue him. 

But he’s not gonna sit on the trundle bed, knees at his chest, looking at Richie’s fucking drool spot. He climbs up to his feet, crosses the hallway to piss and splash some water on his face. The bathroom’s decorated differently than it used to be. It’s up-to-date with the recent issues of Home & Garden that Eddie sees in the doctor’s office, with a big vase in the corner, filled with...are those _ sticks _? 

Whatever it actually is. It’s very ‘09. 

Ridiculously so. It looks so different than it used to. He’s been in this house more times than he can count. But all the trimmings are different. It almost feels like a different place. 

He slips back into Richie’s room without thinking about it. If this was any place else, he’d go down the stairs and check out the coffee situation. But he’d been in this hallway thousands of times, and never once has he trotted alone down the stairs in the morning. 

It’s fucking stupid. This is _ Richie’s _childhood home. Eddie shouldn’t be the one regressing, here. Thirty-two going on fucking thirteen. 

Either way. He closes Richie’s door behind him and circles back over to the bed. Richie’s nose is buried in the drool spot. His mouth hangs open and one foot dangles precariously off the side of the bed. 

He looks…

Ridiculous. That’s the word he wants to use. Ridiculous. 

Eddie gets ahold of himself. He snaps his fingers next to Richie’s ear, quickly, in little circles. “Rich. _ Richie.” _

Richie flips his head - face down on the purple sheets. 

Leaning over, Eddie hauls himself onto the mattress. His knee hits Richie’s ribs, where his shirt rides up a little, and Eddie makes a calculated decision not to think about that. Instead, he shakes Richie’s shoulders. “Come on, asshole. Time to wake up.” 

Richie groans into the bed. “_ No wake. _ Only sleep _ .” _

It’s sleepy and groggy and Eddie can feel himself smiling into it, as he seizes his pillow from the trundle. He bumps Richie on the back of the head with it. Softly at first, and then - to the shoulders - harder. 

Third time’s the charm, and he’s winding up to hit him with the pillow again, up over his head. He swings down and, before he can make contact, Richie's hand knots in the back of his T-shirt. Eddie hits the bed, yelping as he goes down. And - for a beat of a moment - he’s got a face full of pillow before it swings back. Eddie grips tighter on his own. Blindly, smacking back. He can feel the pillow shimmying out of its case, but continues to swing. 

The echoes of soft, cushiony blows, smack throughout the room. Eddie’s laughing. Richie’s laughing. The bed is warm. 

“Give it, you little turd,” Richie laughs, trying to pull Eddie’s pillow from its case. 

“Foul! That’s a fucking foul!” 

“What in the everloving fuck do you mean by _ foul _?” 

Eddie pulls himself up from his back, gripping tighter. On his knees in front of Richie, he bops him right on the nose. “You ever heard of sports regulations?” 

“Fuck your regulations! Is this a fucking _ game _to you?” 

A second more and both pillows fly across the room. They land forgotten somewhere on the rug. Richie’s fingers fly over Eddie’s ribs, speedy, tickling, flushed in the face. 

“Fuck...off,” Eddie gasps between gulps of laughter. “We’re too old...for this...shit.” 

And Eddie’s kicking and laughing and squirming and fighting like hell to get him back. Fingers flying on Richie’s back, ruffling soft cotton. Richie’s hands are under his shirt, and the second Eddie realizes is the second he has his hands on Richie’s wrists. The second he pins Richie’s hands up above his head, into the mattress. 

He’s kind of…pretty.

Where the fuck did _ that _ come from? 

Eddie’s on his hands and knees on top of Richie, breath starting to regulate, looking down at the messy mop of bedhead, the way Richie’s cheeks are pink. 

There’s a strange, foreign pressure at his thigh. He looks down. 

Oh. 

“Um. Richie?” 

“_ Fuck.” _ Richie’s not blushing anymore. He’s pale. He’s squirming. Eddie lets go of his wrists. Sits back on his heels. Richie scrambles for his glasses on the nightstand. His laugh sounds like tin. “ _ Wood- _n’t be morning without it, huh?” 

Eddie’s at the foot of the bed. It’s so sudden he doesn’t remember it happening. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” 

His mouth is dry. His hands feel clammy. 

“Always.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. 

“Um. I’m gonna jump in the shower.” Richie covers himself, arms crossed and legs folded up. “You go ahead and get breakfast or somethin’. I’ll be down in a sec.” 

And Eddie doesn’t exactly _ love that. _He doesn’t get why. There’s nothing at all intimidating about the sunny dust-flecks streaming through the windows here. The trendy wallpaper. It’s just a house. A house he’s been in hundreds of times. 

But, honestly, it’s better than staying here, dumb in Richie’s room. 

And so, he trots down the stairs. 

Crossing the threshold into the kitchen, he’s immediately greeted with “Good morning, Eddie, dear.” 

He almost jumps. He almost feels like he’s caught red-handed. But - for what? The breakfast table where Mrs. Tozier sits with her orange juice seems hidden, somehow, in the corner alcove. “Um. Morning, Maggie…” 

God. It’s fucking weird to call her that. 

“There’s cereal in the cupboard, if you’re hungry.” 

“Thanks.” Eddie shuffles over, picks out a box of Honey Nut Cheerios. He’s not really hungry, he usually will wait an hour or so before breakfast, but it’s something to do. 

“We’ll have an actual family breakfast tomorrow,” Maggie says. “Once Steph and the kids all come.” 

“This is fine. Really.” 

And there’s the sound of the cereal cascading into the bowl. They’ve got a gallon of 2%, and Eddie’s always been a little sure he’s lactose intolerant, so he pours the bare minimum onto his cheerios and resolves to remember to take a Lactaid. 

And Maggie’s on to the niceties. The _ How Did You Sleep _ s and _ Should I Make More Coffee _s? Eddie wants to make himself useful, saying “I’ll get that,” and he does, chatting lightly with Maggie as he measures out the Folgers.

Once it’s brewing, soft gurgling, as though on cue, Wentworth comes shuffling in. Eddie can’t be sure, but the second the guy looks him in the eye is the second he’s looking away, onto the tile. Maybe Eddie spilled some grounds there? 

“Eddie.” He says by way of greeting, nodding. 

Eddie replicates the gesture, because what the fuck else is he supposed to do? “Dr. Tozier.” 

He looks down on his own feet, trying to see if he spilled grounds. Nope. What the fuck? 

It’s a relief, though, when Richie finally careens down the stairs. All wet hair and lumbering limbs, he swings his body weight from the banister, to pour himself a huge pink mug full of coffee. 

“You’re the Number One Grandma, huh?” Eddie can’t help but ask as Richie falls on the chair beside him, slung one arm over his shoulder, leaning all one hundred-seventy-something pounds of himself in. 

“Fuck yeah, that’s me.” 

From across the kitchen, Maggie frowns. “_Really__?” _

Eddie’s suddenly super aware that both of Richie’s parents are still in the kitchen. He squirms. It’s not like this is abnormal. Most mornings, for Eddie, revolve around wrestling Richie’s sleepy bodyweight off him. But, now, it’s all _public_. 

Awkward. Weren’t they going to try to…

Do the opposite of this? 

* * *

They’re in the living room, watching the college soccer game in amicable silence. Wentworth left for his last day at the dental clinic a couple of hours ago. Maggie had suggested they put on ESPN, and more or less immediately after pulled out a crossword. Like it’s for _ their _masculine benefit. 

And Richie fucking goes with it. At home, they do watch sports sometimes. Eddie, though, has this tiny nagging feeling that he gets more into it than Richie does. They’ll watch this shit because Bill and Mike are visiting from Florida, and UCF is playing NYU. Or it’s the World Cup and Brazil is winning. There are snacks and booze and it’s a backdrop to something better. 

Either way. In their little Brooklyn brownstone, sports are an event, not a pastime. 

And this is a bunch of buff twenty-somethings dashing back and forth on the field, kicking, and the crowd goes wild. Exerting ungrown youthfulness and strained, sweaty muscles. Unlike Richie with his knuckles pressed to his temple, staring blankly at the screen. And Eddie’s only half paying attention to the game, half to everything else in the room. The scratch of Maggie’s ballpoint pen, the shuffle of Richie’s legs against the couch (denim and leather, rubbing) because he can’t sit still, the soft whirr of the central A/C on low because it’s not quite hot enough to justify cranking it all the way up. 

Eddie gets up, after the first period, Richie pats him on the shoulder as he goes. He doesn’t have a plan, but he heads to the kitchen. He just needs to move his body. Maybe grab a glass of water. These days, he can’t sit around and watch TV for more than an hour at a time. 

The Toziers don’t have a Britta. There’s a faucet in the door of the fridge for the ice and the water. It’s tap water, delivered fancier. Eddie scans through his memory, trying to remember the safety stats of the tap water in Derry. It always used to taste, vaguely, like dirt. 

But, if he has to choose between tap water and tap water, there isn’t much of a contest. He has to open three cupboards before he finds a glass. Things aren’t on the same shelves as they’d been back in the day, maybe because the plastic cups and cartoon-plates all made their way into donation boxes. 

He’s filling his glass when, though the double-wide archway, the living room breaks. A sudden burst of activity. The front door swings open and in walks Stephanie Tozier-Evans, seven-year-old daughter peeking out from behind her knee. The game flatlines to blackness and voices, suddenly, carry through the air. 

Maggie’s on her feet, hugging Stephanie. The kid immediately pops up between Maggie and Steph, saying excitedly, “Gramma, Gramma, look! I lost my front tooth!” 

“Oh my!” Maggie says, doting hands framing her face as she rambles on, excited about the whole five dollars the Tooth Fairy left her. 

And Steph shuffles over to the couch. Eddie can hear her muted voice. “Hey, Rich.” 

“Hey, Steph.” 

They both sound weirdly like their father. 

And Eddie doesn’t know why that’d be weird - they’re a fucking family, he raised them. But, somehow. It is. 

Everything about this fucking trip has been weird.

The door blows open again, and David Evans pushes through the threshold, big red duffle in one hand and a small _ Arthur _ suitcase in the other. Eddie’s met him once or twice before, briefly, and not enough to make an impression. Behind him, Richie’s eleven-year-old niece stands, both hands locked on her Nintendo DS. 

And Maggie greets them, with the same hugs and smiles as the others, and bids them to sit down. Richie shuffles on the couch cushion. 

With his glass of water full, Eddie emerges from the kitchen. It’s more awkward than it should be, coming in after the reunion. Like he’d been waiting, or something. 

He was just filling up his water. It’s fine. 

The movement catches Stephanie’s eye and Eddie has to admit he doesn’t really _ get _ the look of surprise on her face. “Is that _ Eddie? _Didn’t expect to see you here.” 

Weirdly, she goes in for the hug. She’s a full inch taller than him, and Eddie knows Richie’s gonna make a comment about it later. Call him short, or something. He’s not. Eddie’s perfectly average in the height department, thank you very much. The Toziers are fucking tall. That’s all. 

Besides, he barely knows her anymore. He barely knew her when they were kids; she barely ever tried to tag along, but when she did, Richie’d shut the door in her face. But, if he knows anything about Richie, it’s that he’s a physical kind of person. It makes sense that it’d fun in his family. 

From his corner on the couch, Richie coughs. And then gestures up to him. “David, I think you’ve met Eddie before?” 

David shakes his head. Well. At least the non-impression was mutual. 

Richie frowns, but then finishes the niceties. “Well. Everyone, this’s Eddie. Eddie, that’s David. And these’re Steph’s kids: the older one’s Tab and the younger one’s Naomi.” 

Eddie knows. He’s friends with Stephanie on Facebook. He can’t get over that he’s being _ introduced _. Almost paraded. Like he’s joining something. But, hell. It’s probably the thought that counts anyway. At least it clears up any confusion. 

And at least now they can move the fuck on. 

It’s an optimistic thought. In the next minute, they’ve all dispersed. Tab ran to the basement to play with the Wii, Naomi on her heels. Maggie’s sequestered herself with Stephanie, in a reading nook, excitedly talking details about Wentworth’s party. Richie mumbled something about a smoke break and made a beeline for the porch. 

Eddie’s standing here with a sweaty glass of water, with David. This man he’s met but doesn’t remember and doesn’t even know where to begin a conversation. 

“Drive went well?” It’s better than nothing. 

“Yeah, yeah. The girls fought a little, but you know how it is.” 

Eddie nods, because what the fuck else is he supposed to do? “And whereabouts do you live?”

“Bangor.” 

“Oh. That’s not a bad trip.” 

“Not at all.” 

David shifts his weight from one side to the other. “So. You’re Richie’s…” 

He seems lost for words. 

“Roommate.” 

“Right. Right.” David nods. “So...you two live in Brooklyn?” 

“I work in Manhattan, but it’s cheaper, “ Eddie begins, fading fast. “To live in… in Brooklyn.” 

Maybe he’s a little more peeved he needs to be, then, stepping out onto the porch. Richie's got his legs crossed on the wicker patio furniture, stupid cigarette between his teeth. Eddie knows what that shit can do to you. And he hates the masochistic thrill it gives him to watch Richie do it. It’s the only time Richie ever actually looks cool, between his loose wrinkly shirts, uneven shave, and perpetually snarly hair. He heaves himself down beside him, on the wicker loveseat. 

“Your brother-in-law,” He begins. 

“What about him?” 

“He’s...impossible to talk to.” 

“That’s because he’s a fucking pussy.” It’s not angry or bitter. Just. Ambivalent. 

Eddie doesn’t know if he’d go that far. And before he knows what he’s saying, he elbows Richie in the side. “He gets into Steph’s…” 

“Fuck you.” Richie laughs out smoke. The smell is woody and _ exciting, _for all the ways it’s toxic. 

“I was _ going to _say that this is really awkward.” Eddie glares. “It’s not just your mom. He seems to think we’re together, too. And your dad won’t look me in the eye, and I don’t wanna fucking start thinking what that’s about--” 

“That he can’t keep the mental image of you blowing me in front of my Batman action figures away?” 

Eddie recoils. “Dude. Fucking gross. That’s your dad_ .” _

Richie shrugs. He taps on his cigarette. The cinder’s about halfway down the stick. “It’s ‘cause we’re gay, man. You know what they’re like. See two dudes who like dick, and obviously they’re fucking.” 

Eddie adjusts his shoulders. He’s not..._ that _ obvious. Is he? He doesn’t have to talk about his personal life for his job, not like Richie does. It’s private fucking shit. He gets to keep it private. Plenty of people around the office don’t even _ know _ . Eddie’s not, like, deep in the closet anymore. But he doesn’t go around announcing it either. Richie’s family, they shouldn’t even _ know. _ Not unless Richie told them. And he...he wouldn’t. Eddie sighs. “Yeah? So, what, we cheating on each other with Bill and Mike?” 

“It’s the most torrid of love affairs.” Richie taps his cigarette again. He holds his free hand over his heart. “You’d think we could solve it by swinging.” 

“You’re brilliant.” Eddie cracks a smile. “With four sets of keys in the fishbowl, who’d even guess who we’d be going home with?” 

“You’d pick mine on purpose, wouldn’t you?” 

“I’d _ avoid _yours on purpose, dickwad. It’d be easy enough. With your dumb frog keychain.” 

“You know, you can keep on saying this shit, but you’re still going home with me at the end of the weekend. So. I fucking win.” 

Eddie shakes his head as Richie laughs it off. He flicks his cigarette filter onto the wood of the porch. And Richie stands, stretching and scratching at his stomach absently, saying, “Ready to head back in?” 

No. Not particularly. “I think I’m gonna go for a walk, actually.” 

“Want company?” 

“Nah. Go ahead and hang out with your family. I’ll be back before too long.” 

Richie salutes him as he goes in. 

* * *

Eddie ends up walking by his old house. He doesn’t even mean to. His legs, just sort of took him there, like all those times when he was little, that he’d have to rush home early in the morning after an unsanctioned sleepover. 

In the years since Eddie’s been here, the landlord must have painted the bricks white. The pine trees aren’t overgrown anymore. Whoever’s living here now cares a whole hell of a lot more about the lawn than Sonia had. All they’d ever done was keep the grass trimmed enough to keep the ticks away. 

If he hadn’t known his address his whole life, before he’d even started Kindergarten, just in case he was ever in trouble and needed to tell a nice policeman where he lived, he’d have thought it wasn’t the right place. 

When he squints, he can almost see his mother sitting in her chair, in that floral nightgown, watching something mindless on TV. Sobbing into her hands when he left for New York the first time. He can hear her: _ “You’re abandoning me, Eddie. I always knew you’d abandon me!” _

Everything looks different but the structure, the bones, of the old house still rattles up the dust. 

The pharmacy though, he notices when he finally makes his way downtown, looks the same.

He won’t go to the cemetery, won’t dare put himself through that shitshow. Not this time. The last time he’d been in Derry, he’d gone and stared both his parents’ gravestones in the face. He didn’t even know if he’d started crying because he missed his mom and missed out on ever having a dad. Or if he was crying because he didn’t feel the need to cry. 

And so, he avoids it. Curtails around the pharmacy, walking down the main stretch and taking the block back around, back around to Richie’s house. He doesn’t have to think about the way. 

* * *

Stephanie gets the door, this time, when Eddie knocks. She pulls a face that looks a lot like the bewildered one Richie wears. “Eddie. You’re a guest. You don’t need to knock. Just let yourself in.” 

“Yeah, no. Not gonna happen.” 

He walks through the doorway, and it’s surprisingly empty in the living room. Maggie’s on the landline in the kitchen, mumbling something about quantities and streamers. David’s sitting on the leather armchair with his phone. And, other than that, it’s empty. 

“The kids are in the basement,” Stephanie says from behind him. 

“Um. Okay?” 

“That includes Richie.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes, but he finds himself descending the stairs anyway. 

* * *

Richie’s basement is furnished. It always was, though the collection of furniture has shifted over the years. But it always had the same staples: a sectional, a TV, the old ping-pong table. And, even with this, Richie’s sitting in a beanbag chair, PS2 controller in his hands. Beside him, Tab has the other, and they’re playing some racing simulation. Naomi’s the only one on the couch, playing with a cat’s cradle, making the same shape over and over, with the utmost concentration. Eddie takes a seat in the empty corner of the sectional. 

Richie winces as his car takes a turn. “Oh _ shi--ttake _mushrooms.” 

To that, Eddie has to snort. Richie turns over his shoulder and, immediately, his cubed-virtual car smashes off the road. Tabitha cackles. 

“I know what it means when you say that,” Tabitha says, lapping him as Richie’s car respawns. “And it just makes you seem really uncool.” 

“I’ve literally never been cool a day in my life, Tab.” 

It’s a lie, Eddie thinks, but he supposes it’s an effort to keep him out of trouble with his sister. Or maybe Richie doesn’t get how smooth he is. It shouldn’t matter. 

“It’s pretty cool you’re on TV.” 

Eddie can see Richie adjust his weight. He gets some kind of boost and his car lurches forward. “You don’t _ watch _my standup, do you?” 

“Mom makes me turn it off when you start cussing really bad,” Tabitha says, pressing an extra button and car speeding forward. “You also say a lot of stuff about sex I don’t really get.” 

From his place on the couch, Eddie can’t stop himself from muttering, “That’s probably a good thing.” 

“Yeah. What Eddie said.” Richie agrees, attempts to use a ramp on the screen and his car falls off the side. “I know it’s annoying to hear, but you’ll get it someday. Just. Not now.” 

“You won’t want to,” Eddie says. 

Tabitha crosses the checkered line on the screen and her little boxy avatar starts doing a merry little jig. “It’s also really _ gay. _I know - obviously -” She throws her thumb back towards Eddie, and if this wasn’t a conversation with an eleven-year-old, Eddie might object. And then, so quickly, changes the subject. “Wanna do another race?” 

“Here. Put it on easy mode and let your sister have a turn.” 

Naomi stands from the couch, grumbling, “I don’t need _ easy mode.” _

And Tabitha is rolling her eyes as Richie hands the controller to his youngest niece. 

“Hey,” Richie says, getting up from the ground so Naomi can have her turn on the video game. He sits down next to him. Eddie’s had his arm up on the back of the couch, and, as Richie settles into the couch, the back of his head hits Eddie’s arm. “Did you have a good walk?” 

“Sure,” Eddie says. “Did you have fun getting your butt whooped at your own frickin’ game?” 

Richie snickers and sticks his tongue out. Eddie can tell, from the look on his face, that he wants to flip him off, but isn’t, because of the present company. 

They’re doing better with the whole censorship thing than Eddie would’ve anticipated. And it doesn’t even take away from their fun all that much.

**Saturday, evening. **

It’s almost five. Eddie’s pacing, insisting they should be a little early, but Richie was told not to worry too much about set up. 

So. Of course, they’re heading out a little early. 

By the time they get to the only fucking decent reception hall in Derry, Richie can see why. He’d been anticipating the yellow streamers and homemade photo-boards they’d haphazardly thrown together for his graduation party. But this?

This looks a lot closer to Steph’s wedding reception. It’s all hired out. White and gold balloons, store-bought banners, spelling out unimaginative shit like _ HAPPY RETIREMENT! _ and _ WE WILL MISS YOU, WENTWORTH! _

By the time Richie and Eddie show up, feeling like his shoes and his performance blazer don’t quite fit, Maggie’s finalizing the last details with a staffer, making sure the screen for the projector is on straight. She sees them enter the reception hall, and doesn’t seem to notice that Richie’s only closed his jaw now. 

“Don’t you boys look dashing!” She says, looking between them. Eddie’s wearing a pink Oxford shirt and looks way more comfortable standing there. Richie buries his hands in his pockets. Maggie goes on: “You’re all the first ones here. Your father’s coming later, of course, as the guest of honor. Go ahead and make yourselves comfortable. Food, drinks, whatever you need.” 

And they thank her and stand, awkwardly, as Maggie turns back around and walks into the kitchen, heels clacking under her, to check on the last of the preparations. 

Eddie, arms crossed at his chest, turns to Richie. “What the fuck?” 

“What?” 

“This is a _ retirement _party? When my aunt retired, we had a fucking barbecue in her backyard.” 

Richie shrugs. “Dentists make bank, I guess.” 

“‘You guess.’ You grew up with it.” 

“I didn’t look at the paychecks.” Richie sways from one side to the other. “I was a kid, I didn’t fucking notice.” 

“I did.” 

Richie winces. This conversation is always just..._ so _fucking awkward. “Do you wanna get a drink?” 

Eddie smiles, in the corner of his mouth, dimples deepening. “Sure.” 

They’re standing, Eddie with his Riesling and Richie with his whiskey, and turned the conversation to lighter shit that doesn’t matter. Jokes about their neighbors and the uncanny distress settling in his gut ever since they got to Derry. 

They’re so wrapped up in this stupid, inconsequential conversation, that they don’t notice the doors opening, other people walking in. 

Not until, at least, Richie’s in the middle of a tangent, “And I think they found some old guy’s fucking bones--” 

And then, there’s a small cough. High. Light. 

Richie has to look down. 

And there’s Naomi. In her fucking pigtails and with her missing front tooth. 

Steph’s gonna fucking kill him. 

“Oh shit,” He says before he can stop himself. 

“Jesus Christ. _ Richie.” _Eddie murmurs. From his periphery, Richie can see Eddie shaking his head. 

And Richie has to smile. “What’s up, Nay?” 

But Naomi, for whatever it’s worth, doesn’t seem surprised or confused by the words. She blinks, carefully preparing her words. She turns, very matter-of-factly, towards Eddie. “Daddy says you’re my new uncle.” 

“Uh…” Eddie stammers. 

Naomi frowns. “And he says it’s because Uncle Richie loves you.” 

Richie can’t breathe. Like a fucking sucker-punch or something. 

“But, on my Daddy’s side of the family,” Naomi says, whistling her S’s through her tooth-gap. “When my Aunt Sue got married, I got my Uncle Tommy because she loves him. So, is one of you my aunt or are both of you my uncles? I think they’re supposed to go together. Can I have two uncles or two aunts without the other?” 

Eddie lets out a nervy sort of wheeze. 

Richie’s sure he’s white as a ghost, but - fuck - this is his family and he can’t pass the buck. But, Jesus fuck, how the hell did this even come up? He crouches down, to meet Naomi at her level. “Um. Eddie’s not your new uncle.” 

Naomi frowns. “Don’t you love him?” 

Richie starts. How can he possibly explain this? He runs his tongue over the top of his molars. “Well. _ Yeah. _He’s one of my very best friends. But it’s not like your Aunt Sue and Uncle Tommy.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah. But...um,” And because Richie doesn’t want to have this conversation _ again, _or ever, he continues. “Someday, you might get another uncle. And you can definitely have two uncles together. Or, hell, two aunts, I don’t know David’s side of the family--” 

“_ Richie.” _

“Right, right.” Richie gets back on track. “Anyway. Is that cool?” 

“Okay. That’s cool.” Thinking it over, carefully, Naomi nods. And then she adds, “I want Eddie to be my uncle, though. You smile a lot more.” 

Richie can’t help it. He laughs. It’s a soft, barking thing. He shakes his head, but says, “I’ll put in a request upstairs and see what I can do for you, okay?”

“Okay!” Naomi says. And, as though this is normal, spins around - her little dress flying out around her - and skips over to the snack table. 

And when Richie rises to his feet, Eddie’s got a hand over his mouth. There’s a beat of silence. Strained and pulsing. And then, Eddie says, “Dude, your family is _ way _too interested in your love life. We should break it to ‘em that you don’t have one.” 

Richie snarks out a laugh as a way of regulating his heartbeat. “The party hasn’t even started yet, babe.” 

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie says, the corners of his lips turning up. 

* * *

The awkwardness lessens once the party gets going. Thankfully, Eddie thinks. By 5:30, there’s a small brood of gangly brunette Toziers and a collective of clean-pressed dentists and hygienists and a few others that are more difficult to categorize. But, the more people in the reception hall, the less people assume shit about what Eddie’s doing here. 

Eddie’s standing, in a small group, with Stephanie and two hygienists from Went’s former practice, about the newest trailer for that new James Cameron movie about the blue-aliens. Nothing special; passing the time. 

And then the doors open, in the full room, and in walks Wentworth. He’s got Maggie with him. She must’ve gone to pick him up at some point. 

Like a wave or something, everyone moves to the door. There’s a chorus of “Congratulations” and the sounds of back pats dampened on suede. 

Eddie’s surprised, and jumps a little when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He spins, and it’s Richie. Of course, it’s Richie. His thumb slides on the back of his shoulder. 

“Aren’t you gonna go say hi to your dad?” Eddie asks. 

“I’ll catch him when the crowd dies down.” Richie gives a haphazard little half-shrug. 

His hand doesn’t move. And Eddie’s stepped closer. Maybe he meant to. 

* * *

Stephanie is one of the first people to greet her father. There’s, of course, a long line for the man of the hour, and so she makes it quick. “Congrats, Dad! How does it feel - retirement?” 

“Doesn’t feel like much of anything yet. But it’s nice to know I don’t need to set an alarm on Monday.” 

Steph laughs and steps aside so that the rest of the line can make its way around him. Naomi flies by, past her, and hugs onto Maggie’s hips. She scans the room, quickly, just to be on the safe side. Tabitha’s still at the table with her DS. Which. A little rude and non-social. But she’s here, and she’d put on khakis. And sometimes that’s the gift you get with pre-teens. 

Still looking across the reception hall, Steph locks on to Richie and Eddie. They’re standing back, away from everything. Richie’s got an arm around Eddie and they’re talking. Richie’s laughing about something close to Eddie’s ear. 

They’re good together. She can remember, vaguely, being ten, thirteen, and sixteen, and noticing _ something _in her brother’s face whenever Eddie would come over. A sort of dumbfounded, slack look that she’d made fun of from time to time. She never eavesdropped, but they’d yell at each other over stupid shit, and every time they’d had a sleepover, Stephanie had to hold a pillow over her ears all night long to get a prayer of sleep. 

It’s stupidly sweet. Stephanie had a friend who married her boyfriend right out of high school. They’ve been divorced for five years. She never thought that old cliche - the childhood romance - could last. But - there was Richie, looking the same way as he did at thirteen, sixteen, and nineteen, at the same guy. 

She wonders exactly how long it took her dumbass big brother to realize that the look he wore - the look he’s wearing right now - is love? 

* * *

If there’s one thing Richie knows he’s good at, it’s making conversations interesting. Finding the joke to get at. Even in the blandest conversations with the dental hygienists, Richie’s got an elbow on Eddie’s shoulder and one hand in his pocket and they’re running their mouths about nothing and laughing and, when he and Eddie pull away to get refills at the bar, Eddie’s shaking his head. 

“What’s up, Eddo?” 

“Don’t you ever run out of shit to say?” 

“Have I, ever?” Richie shoots back his drink and, as a waiter passes, helps himself to a pinwheel. 

“No.” Eddie says, “I keep thinking one of these days you will.”

“Why, Eddie, I’d never!” 

“I know. You’re physically incapable of shutting up.” 

And he says it, but it doesn’t seem exasperated or annoying, but more…

Well, Richie doesn’t even know what to make of it. It makes him smile, though. 

* * *

Wentworth Tozier finds his son on the back patio of the reception hall, leaning over the banister, cupping one hand over the end of a white stick to keep the flame going in the breeze. 

He slides up beside him, elbows matching the stooped position. “What’re you smoking?” 

Richie lights his cigarette and immediately places it back into his hand. “Um. Newports.” 

Went holds out a hand and waits.

Richie’s eyebrows shoot down. Like he did the day Mags told him there wasn’t a Tooth Fairy. “Seriously, Dad?” 

He laughs, just a little. Waving his fingers, together, in a no-nonsense gesture. 

“You’re...you’re a dentist.” 

“Not anymore. Come on. I know I raised you to share.” 

Richie hands him a cigarette, and a beat later, his lighter. It has those scribbly drawings he sees Tabitha sharing with her friends on the Facebook sometimes. He hasn’t smoked in years, but he remembers how well enough. The mint-icy menthol rush flies down his throat. 

They stand there, out in the cool summer breeze. It’s not until Went has to flick the ash off his cigarette that he speaks. “I saw your show on TV. The one your mother was talking about.” 

“You did?” 

“Yeah. It was good. You’ve gotten better at those impressions you used to do.” 

“Thank you, thank you very much,” Richie drawls through a dusty caricature of Elvis. 

Went isn’t sure why or how _that _became his son’s vocation or passion. But it’s a vocation. It’s a passion. And he’s good at it. He seemed happy, on the screen. He seems happy now. And, forgetting any other form of understanding, at least that’s what matters_. _It’d been hard, watching Richie grow up and act like he wasn’t having a hard time when, as they later found out, he was. 

Stephanie had come to him once, during the only time the kids were in high school together, when she was a Freshman and Richie was a Senior. “Dad,” She’d said. “Someone wrote something in the girl’s bathroom about Richie.” 

“What’d he do?” Went had said, not looking down from his newspaper. 

“I don’t wanna say.” 

And Went, had the time, hadn’t thought anything of it. It must have been something out of line or so crass it upset the teenage girls at school. “Well, I can’t tell him to knock it off if I don’t know what he needs to be knocking off.” 

“No. It’s...it’s just a rumor. But I think it’s why Richie’s being a jerk right now.” 

Went hadn’t noticed any behavioral shifts in his son, at the time, but lowered his newspaper to make eye contact with his daughter. She didn’t usually have such an interest in her older brother’s life. “The rumor?” 

She nodded. “I thought maybe you could talk to the principal or something.” 

“Honey, I can’t go barging into your principal’s office because kids are a little mean sometimes.” 

“No. Dad. It’s not just a _ little _ mean. You just...you gotta trust me.” 

That Monday, Went canceled a root canal and pulled Richie out of fifth period to take him for ice cream. 

“What the hell, Dad?” Richie had asked, shuffling his backpack from one shoulder to the other. “Are you and Mom getting divorced or something?” 

All Went could do was shake his head and make something up about his math teacher mentioning how he’s on the fast-track to the top of his class. It sufficed. 

He had no idea, exactly, to what extent Richie got hurt in high school and middle school. The kid never shared it with _ them. _ After a while of radio-silence, Went figured it blew over: the graffiti was just some snot-nosed brat being mean_. _ Not any kind of, long-standing thing. Went had always hoped that, if it ever got really bad, he’d come to him. 

And then, in Richie’s last special, his anecdote was, actually, somewhat horrific. The band-aid of a joke rang through Went’s ears. And he saw that graffiti all over again in his mind. Realized how little of his son’s life he knew about. How well Richie succeeds now, in spite of that. 

Flicking another build-up of ash away, Went says. “I’m proud of you. You know that?” 

Richie flicks the filter over the edge of the banister. He exhales. “Yeah, Dad. I know.” 

**Saturday, night. **

After the party, Eddie returns to the room after brushing his teeth. It’s still early, since it was a retirement party, but everyone’s settled in anyway. Richie’s leaning back on that thin twin bed, reading an old copy of _ Hellboy _with his ankles crossed. 

Hearing Eddie come in, he grins slyly. “This’s so gross.” 

And Eddie’s leaning in on Richie’s bed, sliding in beside him. He doesn’t even think about it. Peering over his shoulder at the bright red cartoon gore, he laughs. It’s kind of badass, for all its gratuitousness. “I can’t believe Maggie bought you this shit when you were a kid.” 

“She’s always been kind of oblivious about guy stuff.” 

Eddie hums and leans in. His chin hovers, centimeters from Richie’s shoulder. He’s warm, smells like smoke and deodorant. Without thinking, Eddie reaches over Richie’s body and turns the page. There’s more gore on the next. Richie straightens his shoulders. 

They read the page, quickly, memories of old Saturdays popping back up to Eddie’s mind. Sometimes, it’d be just them. Just like this. Hours in front of comic books in the warm afternoon light, eating junk food and worrying about tooth decay and dust mites and the last time Richie even washed his bedsheets. Trading comics and trying to find the goriest, grossest panels to show the other. 

“Ready?” 

“Hm?” In his periphery, Eddie sees Richie’s face turn towards him. He can feel him exhale on the shell of his ear. 

“For the next page?” 

“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” 

Eddie reaches across the page and, trying not to let himself get _ distracted -- _(of all things, distracted?) he settles in to read the first few panels. Richie hasn’t moved since they were talking, and something about it makes Eddie’s stomach jump. 

“The fuck are you looking at, man?” He turns his head to look at Richie and their noses almost rub. It’s a nervy sort of breath that comes next. 

Richie mumbles, quietly -- Eddie’s not even sure he hears it -- “Fuck it.” 

And Richie kisses him. His lips are warm. A brief electric thrumming rushes through Eddie’s middle as Richie’s stubble scratches above Eddie’s lips. The comic book flaps down onto the purple bedspread. Richie’s touching his face. Eddie reaches forward and his fingers knot on the shoulder of Richie’s shirt.

Shit -- he’s kissing back, isn’t he? 

He definitely is. And they’re leaning into one another, and Eddie’s very seriously contemplating biting down on Richie’s bottom lip when he realizes that he’s _ very seriously contemplating biting down on Richie’s bottom lip. _Richie. Fucking Richie. 

Eddie’s stomach drops. 

Him and Richie. They don’t _ do _ this _ . _They never have. And it’s only started because they’re here, in Derry, again, and everyone’s looking at them as though they do. 

He breaks it off as quickly as it started. Hand still on Richie’s shoulder, he pushes away with a light distressed chortle. “_ Whoa. _Whoa there! You been brainwashed by your family or something?” 

Richie’s next reaction is plastic as all hell. Completely transparent that it’s fake when he cackles. “You fell for it! Guess I really got a good one in on you, huh, Eds?” 

_ That’s _fucking unnecessary. Eddie brings his hands back to himself. Huffs. He reaches for the comic in Richie’s lap and opens it again, Sulking, and Richie damn well better notice. 

If his tentative sigh is any indicator, as he leans over Eddie to look at the comic, he does. 

**Sunday. **

Richie isn’t sure what the hell got into him last night, but he feels fucking awful about it. He’s never crossed this line with Eddie before. There were times when they were teenagers, he’d wanted to. When he thought, maybe, Eddie wanted that too. When they’d be sitting together, in the hammock or reading comics, just like last night, and Eddie’d look up at him and he’d thought…maybe, Eddie wanted him to kiss him. 

He’d _ wanted _Eddie to want him to kiss him. 

And then he went and got over it. He’d wanted Eddie in his life, and that outdid everything else. Growing up, he’d always get the painful reminder, whenever Mrs. K would ground Eddie, or otherwise keep him from going out to the Barrens or the Quarry or Richie’s house, or whatever. 

And Richie couldn’t live like that all the time. So, he convinced himself that it’d be fine. 

It was. Usually. 

He blew all that up last night. Decimated it to shreds. And, for what fucking reason? Because they were snuggled up all cozy on the bed he got when he was seven, reading a comic? That Eddie smelled like Colgate and his breathing was soft and even? That Richie’d had, maybe, one drink too many? 

Well. Good going, Trashmouth. Wonderful decision, man. 

They have a long fucking car ride this afternoon, and - Richie hopes - maybe it won’t be too awkward.

* * *

Richie takes the first leg of the drive. Tries to smile as they pass the signpost, _ LEAVING DERRY. _Richie calls out to it, to fill the quiet hum of the engine, “Hasta la vista, motherfucker!” 

And, for some fucking reason, that prompts Eddie to say, “So, what the fuck, man?” 

Richie’s hands flex on the steering wheel. “What?” 

“Everyone thinks we’re fucking.” 

“Yeah. And?” 

“We aren’t.” 

“I mean, if that’s the problem for you we can definitely fix that…” _ Shut up. Just shut up, Richie. _“You didn’t want to.” 

Eddie gapes, his hand flies up to emphasize his own point, talking with them. “You can’t _ honestly _say that all that shit hasn’t affected you at all?” 

Richie doesn’t get the segue, but figures that’s less important than where the conversation’s gone. 

“You can’t just let other people run your life for you.” Richie looks over, for a moment, to see Eddie glare at him. He places them back on the road, in enough time to stop any protest about reckless driving. 

“Are you kidding me, man?” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“What the _ hell _ was that last night?” 

Richie’s throat feels dry. Maybe he swallowed a fly or something. “That makes it sound a helluva lot dirtier than it was.” 

Eddie groans, exasperated. “You fucking know what I mean, do _ not _ fucking twist my words around, Richie.” 

Sometimes, Eddie can talk so fucking fast it’s hard to make out all the words. And if Richie’s ear weren’t devastatingly hard-pressed to the conversation, maybe he wouldn’t have been able to. 

“I can’t believe you think I kissed you just because people think we’re together. If that’s all it took, I would’ve tried to bone you down years ago. Jesus.” 

Maybe Eddie’s learning his elbow against his window, massaging his temples, because he sees it too. 

Their friends are subtler, but there’s still the occasional comment or glance from their friends. Stanley’s threatened to shove them into a linen closet before. Ben always seems a little _ too _aware. Too empathetic. Mike and Bill have called their biannual get-togethers double dates. And when they were the last to get married, and in the drunken tizzy at the end of the reception, Bev had put her arms around their necks and said, “I guess you two are next, huh?” 

And _ yeah, _ that didn’t exactly mean they were next _ together, _but it seemed like that was what she was saying at the time. The implication was there enough that Eddie had flushed red and Richie could feel the alcohol sloshing around in his gut. 

Richie doesn’t think, for a second, any of their friends really think they’re secretly together. They probably think it’s funny or some shit. 

“The Losers don’t count for that,” Eddie says now, tight-lipped. 

“Why the fuck not?” 

“I don’t fucking know! They just _don’t!” _ And Eddie punches the power button on the radio, keeps twisting the dial until the static fades into music. Kelly Clarkson’s voice belts from the speaker. 

_ ‘Cause we belong together now (yeah). Forever united here somehow (yeah). You got a piece of me, and honestly… _

Okay. Fair enough. Conversation over. 

Well, this fucking sucks. 

The first hour passes without further incident. The radio narrates for them, and Richie keeps his eyes on the fucking road, tapping along to the beat to give his fingers something to do. 

Halfway through the second hour, they stop for gas. Eddie slides out of the car and does fucking little lunges to stretch his legs - not all the way down, hinging at the waist a little. From the other end of the car, sliding the gas nozzle in, Richie watches and he must be looking at him all confused, because Eddie says, “Fuck off, you have to move to prevent blood clots.” 

And, in spite of the fact it’s the first time they spoke in over an hour, it almost feels like they’re back to normal. 

They switch in the third hour, at a rest stop. Richie had pretty much jumped out of the car and made a dash to the bathroom and when he steps back out, Eddie’s in the driver’s seat, the cloth top of the car popping up from the back. 

It’s so far up, Richie has to open the door to get back inside. “Is it gonna rain or something?” 

“No. I’m just tired of the wind blowing in my ears. Is that fucking okay with you?” 

Richie holds his hands out, palms up. “I mean, that’s half the appeal of a convertible but whatever, man. You’re the driver.” 

Eddie shakes his head and puts his hand on the back of Richie’s headrest, to back out of the parking spot.

They’re nearing the end of the fourth hour. Eddie’s driving, the speed, the confidence with which he changes lanes and manic breathlessness with which he cusses out the other drivers, isn’t any different than it was on the way up. 

It seems like the further they get from Derry, the more things go back to normal. 

And that’s comforting. Until it isn’t. 

Since when did ‘normal’ make Richie feel this shitty? 

They have lunch late, and Richie takes the driver’s seat again with a french fry balanced between his teeth like a cigarette. Which. Holy shit. He needs. 

This might be the longest drive of his life. They pass the big green sign signaling the final length. WELCOME TO NEW YORK: THE EMPIRE STATE.

Nevertheless, hours six and seven crawl. 

It’s the last hour of the drive, and it’s a little surprising that Richie’s been able to keep quiet this whole time, but at this point? He’s had enough. “Are you really that pissed off that I kissed you?” 

Eddie looks over at him, and Richie can’t look away from the road to look close enough to get any details. So. He’s kind of flying blind here. 

Eddie says, “I’m pissed that you took a joke too far. You always do. I don’t know why I let it bother me…” 

He’s still talking, but Richie’s brain shorted out. 

“What?” 

“What-what? You don’t think I fell for it, right?” 

Oh. Right. That was how he’d covered his tracks, wasn’t it? Great. Just. _ Great. _

And, because Richie wouldn’t backtrack if his life depended on it, he asks, “Are things gonna be awkward when we get home?” 

“Maybe we need boundaries or some shit.” 

Richie doesn’t _ love _the sound of that. “Like?” 

“People just _ assume _we’re dating, all the time. And I don’t think it’s just straight people assuming shit.” 

“I thought you said the Losers don’t count?” 

Eddie waves his hands around his own face. It seems like he’s not trying to piece anything together. “Maybe it’s because we act like it. Maybe we should stop that.” 

“Or we could actually date.” 

Oh, goddammit. Why’d he say _ that? _

Beep. Fucking. Beep. Richie. 

“Oh fuck no! I’m not gonna date you because people put the idea in your head. That’s fucked up.” 

“Why do you think I’m only asking because people put the idea in my head?” 

“Because you fucking kissed me after a weekend at your parents’ house!” 

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe I just wanted to kiss you? Because you were there and all pretty and shit?” 

“No!” 

“Well, maybe you should!” 

They’re quiet again. The road stretches on, and on, and on. 

And a moment passes before Eddie asks, “Did you?” 

“Did I what?” 

“Kiss me just because you wanted to.” 

Richie takes one hand off the steering wheel. He wishes he wasn’t driving so he could stuff it in his pocket or take off his glasses or fidget in any way other than adjusting an already perfectly placed rearview mirror. 

“Dude, if you wanna seduce me all you have to do is take off your shirt,” Richie lets out a hollow laugh. 

“It’s a simple fucking question. Did you?” 

He feels exposed to the elements. Which doesn’t make fucking sense because the top is up. Removing his hand from the mirror, he fans himself. “Well, mah stawrs, Edwawd--” 

“Stop it with the fucking jokes. Yes or no, Richie?” 

“I…” He stops. Pauses. And, the impulse is there, instant, to oblige him. “Yeah.” 

The sun catches through the window, and Richie has to squint. The half-second that remains, with the rumble of the engine and the smooth sound of the air on the outside of the car lasts way, way too long. 

And then Eddie says, “We live together and you wait to make a move until we’re in your old nursery? What the fuck, man?” 

Richie can’t help it. He laughs. 

* * *

They don’t talk about it again. But, after pulling up to their brownstone, something’s different. It’s evening, the light’s gone low outside, and Eddie almost forgets he has to re-plug in the lamps in the living room. 

Their place is narrow and small, the furniture a hodgepodge mixture of stuff picked up here and there, usually from thrift stores. It'd been a point of personal pride when Eddie managed to save enough to splurge on a couch from Ethan Allen. 

And there’s no reason for anything to seem different, it’s all the same. They toss their suitcases to the ground in the entryway and Richie turns to him. The motherfucker's standing at his full height, hovering over him. They only have a four-inch difference, but it might as well be a mile. At the same time, it might as well be nothing - they’re pressed together. 

“Are we actually doing this?” 

Richie sighs. “I..I’m down if you are.” 

Eddie can feel his eyes start to roll and for a second he can see a grin sneaking up on Richie's face, but then Eddie’s got a hand on his chest. He shoves. Richie’s backed up against the front door, and Eddie’s got his hands on his face. 

“Okay.” It's Eddie's turn to smile. 

And, this time, when the impulse comes to bite on Richie’s lip, he gives in. 

“_ Shit, _Eds,” Richie whines. 

Eddie smiles against his mouth. “Shut up." 


End file.
